


The Morning After the Night Before

by sara_holmes



Series: Puzzle Pieces [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2018-04-23 11:05:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_holmes/pseuds/sara_holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So they rescued the boys, beat up Hydra, decapitated the villain du jour - oh, and finally got your guy, in Bucky's case - and all got home safely. There's still some loose ends to tie up, though.</p><p>Chapter 1 - Bucky<br/>Chapter 2 - Steve<br/>Chapter 3 - Clint<br/>Chapter 4 - Tony</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bucky & Clint

**Author's Note:**

> Counterpart Verse (Puzzle Pieces universe). Several people asked what happened when everyone got home, so I gladly explored that a little.

The jet hums beneath him, a comforting rumble of sound as they head back towards New York. Exhausted, Bucky leans his head back against the padded seat behind him, bright eyes still alert. The shield is at his hip, gleaming quietly and proudly in the low interior lights, red gloves draped over its edge.

Fuckin’ Hydra. He can still feel anger simmering in the bottom of his stomach, and it’s easy to admit that most of it is directed at the fact that Hydra dared to fuck with the kid. Him getting kidnapped is nothing more than a minor inconvenience; the worst of it is a knock to his pride.

But they’d gone after Steve and Tony’s kid - and tried to take Steve as well. And if there’s one thing that makes Bucky angry, it’s people trying to get at Steve.

He glances down, re-evaluating as he idly strokes a metal hand over the head that’s cushioned on his lap. Two things, maybe.

“I’m a cat,” Clint murmurs drowsily, attempting a purring noise as Bucky strokes over his hair. “A badass bow and arrow cat.”

“You are high on painkillers,” Bucky replies, but the corner of his mouth hitches in a weak smile and he scratches under Clint’s chin. Clint’s mouth curves into a matching lazy smile and he sighs contentedly, not bothering to open his eyes.

Yeah, Bucky thinks as he tips his head back again. Anyone trying to hurt Clint Barton will be approached with swift and extreme prejudice. And he kind of knew that before, but now it’s...different.

He looks over to where Steve is sitting behind the Storm-occupied pilot’s seat, with Tony sitting just behind him and Arto in his arms. Tony’s arms are looped around Steve’s, his mouth pressed to Steve’s shoulder and eyes closed. Arto is awake but quiet, blinking slowly. He’s got his fingers jammed into his mouth in that weird way he does, and to an outsider, he probably looks pretty okay but Bucky thinks he can see at least a few hints of disassociation. He won’t mention it today, but he’ll keep a close eye on the kid and maybe catch up with Steve when he’s slightly less bruised and bullet-ridden.

“We there yet?

“Shush, Barton kitty,” Bucky murmurs back. “Sleep. I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

“Mrow,” Clint slurs, and Bucky huffs out of laugh. He tips his head back, catches Steve looking at him across the back of the jet. Steve lifts tired brows, smile curving his mouth. Bucky pointedly gives him the finger and Steve’s smile widens, a soft breath of laughter leaving him. He looks away, leans down and kisses Arto’s forehead, not protesting when Arto leans up and wraps arms around his neck, keeping him close.

God, that kid. If Bucky had thought that Tony was Steve’s weak spot before, he’s so terribly vulnerable now. This whole shit-storm just proves it. Bucky’s going to have a serious talk with Steve about protection detail for the brat, because the team seriously can’t handle another kidnapping.

And Bucky might grudgingly admit that he can’t handle anything happening to the brat, even if said brat still hates him.

He looks down and strokes a metal finger over Clint’s brow, through a smear of soot. He avoids the angry, red scuff near his temple, knowing it’ll sting and wishing he could loan Clint his accelerated healing so he didn’t have to be hopped up on painkillers.

The jet lands and everyone slowly disembarks. Even Natasha is moving slowly, something restrained and cautious in her movements. Steve manages to get to his feet himself but Tony takes Arto, swinging him up easily in the armor. Steve protests but Bucky is pleased to see Tony utterly ignore him, so Steve trails behind after them looking a little put out and trying not to show how he’s limping or holding onto his ribs.   

Bucky sighs but lets him go. “Come on, Princess,” he says, slapping Clint lightly on the cheek. Clint flinches and opens his eyes, struggling to sit up. He looks dazed and not altogether with it, and when he tries to stand he lists dangerously and has to grab hold of Bucky.

“Whoa,” he says. “Am I drunk? I feel pretty drunk. Also, throwing up. That might be a thing.”

Bucky doesn’t reply. He just crouches down, grabs Clint’s wrist and hauls him over his shoulders in a fireman’s lift. Clint doesn’t even protest, just grabs hold of Bucky’s belt in his free hand as Bucky ducks a second time to grab the shield.

He carries Clint down into the communal area and sets him down at the counter, pushing him onto a stool and going to get him a glass of water. Everyone seems too exhausted to talk. Steve attempts to organise some sort of check in but Tony waves him off, pulling him bodily towards the elevator. Steve puts up a token resistance, but with Tony in the suit it doesn’t amount to much. Bucky takes a deep breath and holds it as Steve vanishes into the elevator; it’s not easy for him to have Steve out of sight when Bucky knows he’s hurt, but he also knows logically that Steve is in safe hands. Tony being in the armor helps - his protective instincts are somewhat appeased by the fact he knows Iron Man can and will react with extreme prejudice if anything threatens Steve and Arto.

“Bed,” a voice mumbles at his side. “Can we sleep for like a week?”

“Medical first, then sleep,” Bucky says, pulling Clint up and hitching his arm over his shoulders, watching as Bruce heads towards the elevator, followed by Natasha.

“No, I’m not hurt,” Clint says. “Please, Buck.”

And Bucky relents. He’ll give Clint a once-over himself and if there’s anything worrying he’ll cart him straight to medical, but for now he’s happy to be able to whip Clint away and keep him somewhere safe until his nerves have calmed down. It might take a few hours – who is he kidding, this is probably one that’s going to take days – because he still can’t shake the feeling that had almost ripped him inside out when he’d watched that building start to collapse in on himself, knowing that Clint wasn’t out, that he wasn’t safe.

He doesn’t even bother asking Clint if he wants company, instead following him into his rooms and shutting the door behind them. It’s not exactly unheard of for them to spend the night in each-other’s quarters, and he thinks it’d be weird if he suddenly started asking permission.

“You’re staying, right?” Clint asks as he staggers towards his bed, tired wobbling steps. He grinds to a halt, swaying slightly and looking like he’s an inch from toppling right over.  

“You want me to stay?”

Clint shrugs. “Dunno. Will there be more kissing?”

Bucky feels the words uncurl warm in the pit of his belly. “You bet your ass there will.”

Clint smiles crookedly at him. “Good. I was kinda liking how that turned out.”

Reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, Bucky steps up to him and turns him around, and Clint doesn’t even protest as Bucky pushes him to sit on the edge of the bed, kneeling down to unlace his boots. He’s blinking slowly, staring at the wall just over Bucky’s shoulder. In fact, he’s looking a hell of a lot like Arto did earlier, all distant and not quite with it.

“I shot Vasquez.”

Bucky doesn’t look up as he tugs Clint’s boots off, tossing them aside.

“The medic?”

“Yeah,” Clint says as Bucky strips off his socks. Bucky glances up and Clint is still staring at the wall, looking a little lost. “She was Hydra. And Nat was getting information out of her. And then I shot her straight in the head. Point blank.”

“Well, Hydra.” Bucky shrugs, and he slaps Clint lightly on the side of his knee, making him focus and look at him. Clint does without question, light blue-grey eyes meeting Bucky’s without any hint of hesitation or uncertainty. “Don’t feel bad about it. She made her choice.”

“I know,” Clint says, and the corner of his mouth hitches in a weak smile, but it isn’t strong enough to last. “They took you.”

“And they paid for it,” Bucky says as he stand up, this time clapping Clint gently on the cheek. “Come on, Hawkeye. You know how this works. It happened, we beat it, you let it go.”

“This is so rich coming from you,” Clint says in mild disbelief. “Mister Winter Soldier-”

“I’m totally over that,” Bucky says, and with a tired smile he plucks at his uniform. “Captain America now. Totally over it.”

And Clint laughs. The sound is rough and edged with too much emotion but he’s laughing so he’s okay. Bucky leans over him and deftly unbuckles Clint’s quiver, pulling it from his back and setting it against the edge of the bed.   

“You do good as Captain America. You look good as Captain America,” Clint says absently, and he reaches up to start pulling at the zippers on his uniform. And Bucky has seen him wrestle himself out of uniform countless times, but this time it’s different. Without stopping to second guess, he reaches out the moment Clint’s tactical vest is unzipped, sliding his hands onto the bare skin of his waist, pushing the sides of the vest aside. Clint hums lazily in the back of his throat and shrugs the jacket off his shoulders, before sighing and pulling Bucky up close, in-between his legs.

Bucky allows himself to be pulled, settling into place. He's not quite with Clint assessment that he looks or does good as Captain America, considering he got himself kidnapped - and pretty pathetically early on in the game to be painfully honest. However, it had taken twenty seven - twenty fucking seven - agents to pin him down in the first place, and he got himself unkidnapped pretty swiftly. He can imagine that Hydra will think twice about trying that one again, considering the hell he gave them when he'd gotten out. On a personal level he's content with that, but he's got to remember that when he's in that uniform with the shield in hand, it's not just about him. He's representing something more. 

Steve picked a hell of a time to hand over the shield and become a family man. Bucky doesn't hold it against him one bit, but maybe next time he'll consider waiting until after the biggest Hydra incursion of the year. 

Still kneeling, Bucky shuffles forwards so he’s pressing bodily against Clint, arms wrapped tight around him. His face settles in the crook of his neck and he closes his eyes, inhaling the scent of battle on Clint’s skin. Clint’s arms loop around him in return, seemingly content to be shirtless while Bucky is still in full Captain America get up.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Clint murmurs, chin hooked over Bucky’s shoulder. “When I got the alert saying you’d gone-”

“Shush,” Bucky says mildly. “I know.”

He doesn’t point out that this is exactly how he felt when he found out Clint had gone and pitched himself out the back of the jet, that it’s how he feels whenever Clint does something reckless and dumb, though he’s tempted. That can wait until Clint isn’t so unsteady. So for now, he just eases himself back from Clint, allows himself to appease the need in his chest by gently kissing Clint’s forehead, and then helps strip him out of the rest of his gear.

“You’re a mess, Barton,” he murmurs, grimacing slightly at the bruising that’s already forming up over Clint’s hip, the nasty looking scrape on his thigh.

“Had worse,” Clint says tiredly, scratching the back of his head and tugging the waistband of his boxers straight. “Are you wearing that flag to bed?”

“Guess not,” he shrugs. There’s half formed jokes about what counts as desecrating the stars and stripes, something about grossing Steve out when he returns the uniform, but he’s so tired he just lets it go, sitting on the edge of the bed and kicking his boots off.

He feels the mattress dip behind him and then fingers are reaching around and pulling at the straps of the suit. He raises his eyebrows, reaches for his belt. “Can do it.”

“I know,” Clint says, and the insides of his knees press against the outside of Bucky’s hips. “But I get to brag that I stripped Captain America.”

Bucky snorts with laughter and lets Clint help, easing the top half of the suit from aching shoulders. He’s littered in bruises and a few angry looking marks that are from being shot and mildly stabbed. Just like Bucky predicted, Clint doesn’t say anything as they’re revealed and Bucky is tired enough to admit it’s a very welcome alternative to Steve’s exasperated looks and insistence on telling him off. Not that Steve’s in any place to talk; he’s probably telling Tony off for that bump on his head he’s got even while ignoring the bullet holes in his own skin.

“Steve know you got shot?” Clint mumbles as he reaches for Bucky’s belt with drunken fingers. He tries to pull it open but gets halfway through and seems to forget what he’s doing, pulling on the wrong bit and tightening the whole thing all over again. He looks vaguely surprised and pulls ineffectually at the leather, frowning as if it’s to blame for the hold up. Bucky takes pity on him, nudging his hands aside and dealing with the suit pants himself.

“Probably, he saw the suit,” Bucky says, kicking out of the pants and leaving them abandoned on the floor. “But he got shot too so he can shut his fat mouth.”

Clint starts to laugh, slumping forwards so that his forehead touches Bucky’s back, just between his shoulder blades. His shoulders shake, and he manages to choke out _‘fat mouth’_ and then descends into laughter again, pressing his palms to his face. Bucky raises an eyebrow as Clint just laughs harder, the sound muffled slightly by his hands.

“Yeah, you’re high as fuck,” Bucky says, twisting around as Clint carries on giggling helplessly. “Get in the bed, Barton.”

“No, no,” Clint protests. “No, you said more kissing. I’m kissing Captain America. The robot one. Not the Steve one.”

“I will kiss you when you have slept off the massive amounts of painkillers that Nat has injected you with,” Bucky says. “And when I’m sure you’ve not broken anything or seriously hurt yourself.”

Clint pouts. He actually pouts, lower lip sticking out and eyes looking betrayed. “You lied to me,” he says. “You said we could fuck.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up. “I did not!”

Clint’s expression goes confused. “Wait, what?”

Heart skipping oddly inside his chest, riding on a wave of almost overwhelming fondness, Bucky clambers onto his knees on the bed. He takes Clint’s head in his hands, leaning in to gently kiss him, cupping his chin carefully like he’s something delicate. He’s not, Bucky knows that; Clint is a soldier, a fighter. But right now, Bucky thinks that Clint isn’t the only one not quite thinking sense.  

“Is that a no to the not fucking?” Clint asks. “Wait, negatives. I mean, is that a yes we can’t fuck? No, no, hang on, I got this. We can-”

Bucky shuts him up by kissing him again. He doesn’t think he’ll get bored of it anytime soon. “Can we talk about this when you’re not compromised by painkillers?” he asks. “I really kinda would like any agreements about anything to be made when we’re both fully with it.”

And Clint understands, of course he does. “Consent is sexy,” he says seriously to Bucky. “Well informed, non-drugged consent. You got it.”

“You’re a fucking loser,” Bucky informs him.

“I love you,” Clint replies.

There’s a moment of silence. Clint just carries on looking at Bucky with that fucking dumb stupid smile on his face like he’s not just said that, like he’s not just-

God, Bucky doesn’t know whether to kiss him again or strangle him.

“Get in the bed, Clint,” he finally manages to say, his whole damn chest feeling twisted up and turned inside out. Clint doesn’t call him on the lack of response, just nods happily and then clambers into the bed, dragging himself under the sheets.

“You’re staying, right?” he asks around a massive yawn, curling up small on his side and making the fierce protective part of Bucky rear up and growl.

“Yeah, I’ll stay,” Bucky says and Clint’s smile gets wider.

“Aw, that’s awesome,” he says sincerely, and then another yawn forces its way out of his mouth and his eyelids are drooping already.

“Tragic,” Bucky mutters, pressing his palms to his face for a moment, trying to steady himself. God, Clint is such a fucking idiot, saying _that_ with that dumb smile on his face. Fuck, Bucky doesn’t know whether to hope it was just the painkillers talking, or to pray that Clint meant it and that he’ll say it again.

He doesn’t even consider running though. This is Clint, who has somehow become his best guy, who has always had his back even after everything went so terribly wrong, even when things were so strained between Bucky and Steve that he doubted he’d ever have a friend again. No, leaving isn’t an option, so he simply clambers into the bed as well, shoving at pillows and blankets. He settles behind Clint, pulling him back against the chest and tangling their legs together.

“Ha,” Clint says, not bothering to open his eyes. “Spoon. I’m a little spoon.”

“You were a cat not long ago.”

“Now I’m a spoon,” Clint replies, but the words are blurry and indistinct. “I’m a…”

His eyelids quiver like they’re about to open, but they don’t. Pressing his lips together hard against his still bubbling emotions, Bucky just watches Clint’s face as his eyelids go still again, his whole face going lax and calm as he breathes out steadily. He looks peaceful and calm, despite the blood and muck he’s still covered in.  

He settles his head down on the pillow behind Clint’s, but Bucky doesn’t sleep right away. It’s the same after every mission; whereas Clint can conk out within thirty seconds of landing, it always takes Bucky longer to come down from the adrenaline rush of a mission. Steve is the same, but Steve is with Tony and Arto and Bucky isn’t going to interrupt that for anything. He’s so proud of Steve he’s not sure he can articulate it; he remembers all too clearly the moment where he’d genuinely thought Steve was going to send the kid packing, and even though he’d have supported Steve either way…he’s glad Steve chose to give being a dad a go. He’s turning out to be not totally terrible at it.

Like Bucky is going to have to try and be not totally terrible at being in a relationship.

Lying there behind Clint, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat and the rise and fall of his chest, he feels like he could cry and he doesn’t fuckin’ know why. God, it’s this damn punk knocking all of his emotions out of whack, getting himself half blown up and nearly getting crushed by a damn building. Exhaling slowly, Bucky reaches up and gently strokes his fingertips through Clint’s hair for a moment. It appeases the still brittle, angry part of him that is demanding to know everyone is okay, the urges to protect.

He loves him too. He reckons he always has.

Maybe he’ll tell him that when he wakes up.  

 


	2. Steve & Tony (& Arto)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone requested hurt/comfort for Counterpart Steve like a thousand years ago?! I can't remember who did - but here it is! Steve's first night back.

Steve sits on the edge of the bed, silent and still. Behind him, Tony is fast asleep, breathing deep and even. Arto is curled up in front of Tony, also sleeping soundly. He keeps twitching in his sleep, jerks of his feet and hands and hitches in his breathing. Steve prays he isn’t having nightmares.

They’re both clean and safe; Steve has patched up their minor cuts and bruises and put them both through the shower, with the promise that he’d do the same for himself and then follow them to bed after he’d got them settled.

He’s already resigned to breaking that promise. He’s exhausted to his very bones and wants nothing more than to climb into bed behind Tony and sleep, to wrap his arms around his family and not think or dream for several long hours, but he can’t. Partly because he literally cannot turn off _‘protect and watch over my family’_ mode that has engaged in his brain, also because he hurts all over and Tony and Arto both keep twitching and knocking against his various injuries.

Arto makes a soft sound in the back of his throat; Steve twists around immediately, reaching out and gently shushing him, running his fingers through his hair. Arto whimpers and twists restlessly, and Steve aches to pick him up and hold him close, wishing he could chase away the nightmares.

He blinks back tears, a lump in his throat.

He’s never letting Arto out of his sight again. Ever.

Arto exhales and settles again, a frown on his small face. Steve can’t stop staring at him. Christ, he has a son. His own flesh and blood, a mirror image of himself right there. He can barely process it, nor the strange feeling in his chest that refuses to allow him to move away from Arto. It’s like how he feels for Tony but more, stronger. He loves Tony with all of his heart, but this feeling that seems to have grown for Arto is utterly inexplicable.

He can barely remember the version of himself that didn’t love Arto. He’s ashamed to even think it now, the things he said to Bucky, the way he ran away from him. He’d take it all back if he could. But he can’t, so he’ll just have to move on from it. Do better every day from this point on.

He exhales heavily, winces as his ribs protest. His leg aches too, and his head is throbbing where he cracked it on the console. It doesn’t bode well seeing as it’s hours and hours since it happened, but he had other priorities to sort before he attended to himself. Slowly, he stands up. He needs to sleep, he knows it. He’ll heal more quickly if he’s asleep, won’t feel so out of sorts. He  limps to the doorway, going out into the penthouse. He pulls the door closed behind him but doesn’t fully shut it, needing to be able to hear Arto and Tony.

“Jarvis?” he murmurs, walking over towards Arto’s corner of the room.

“Yes, Captain?”

“Monitor Arto and Tony, please,” he says, bracing his hands on the back of Arto’s couch. Let me know if anything changes. Dips in pulse, twitches, anything that looks like nightmares.”

“Yes, Captain.”

It appeases some of the brittle tension in his chest, allows him to breathe. He feels close to tears, all mixed up with everything that happened; the guilt of letting anything happen to Arto, the fear of losing him, the relief that everyone is back safe.

The ridiculousness that is Bucky and Clint apparently finally getting together.

Shit, Tony was right.

He starts to laugh, head dipping low so his chin nearly touches his chest. His shoulders shake and he lifts a hand to press against his eyes, and he finds the laughter turning into choked sobs, unable to help it.

He tips his head back again, drawing in a sharp breath and trying to get himself under control. Staring up at the ceiling, he forces himself to regulate his breathing, fighting down the hysterics. _You’ll wake Arto_ , he tells himself, and forces himself calm.

Wiping his face, he steps around the couch and picks his way across the lego strewn carpet to Arto’s bed. Pushing Bucky Bear out of the way, he rolls onto the bed with a bitten back grunt of pain, settling on his back and blinking at the ceiling. Arto’s bed is nowhere near as large as what he’s used to, but it’s just about long enough for him and it’s certainly comfier than some places he’s slept.

He reaches up above his head, fumbling across the pillow until he finds Bucky Bear. He pulls it around, feeling his chin tremble as he looks at the already worn looking bear. It’s got smudges of something on its ears and a sticky mark on its coat, and he can’t help but smile weakly as he spots it.

Breathing out unsteadily, he tucks the bear under his chin, rests one broad palm across it, closes his eyes and sleeps.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up to feel someone sitting on the bed next to him, a hand resting on his chest. He blinks dazedly and jerks his head up off the pillow, looking around and immediately wanting to get up and check on Arto-

“Hey, easy. It’s just me.”

Tony’s voice is rough around the edges but still gentle and soothing. Steve’s eyes lock on him and he stops trying to sit up, exhaling and relaxing back down onto the bed.

“Arto?”

“Still sleeping,” Tony says. “He’s fine, Steve. We’re all fine. Though I am a little pissed that you broke your promise. This is not showering up and coming to bed, Captain.”

“I tried. Arto kept kicking my bruises.”

“Alright. What’s the excuse for not showering and patching yourself up?” Tony asks. “I told you that on your head needed stitches-”

“It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine as long as Arto-” His voice breaks and he cuts himself off, shaking his head. Tony wordlessly holds out a hand and Steve winces as he sits up, reaching out to take the proffered hand in his own. Tony meets him halfway and wraps his arms around him, pulling him close. The tears from the night before lurk unsettled in Steve’s chest, and he has to breathe in and out through his mouth as he holds Tony tight to him, an arm around his neck and one around his back.

“Wasn’t just Arto-”

“I know,” Tony tries to soothe.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Steve says thickly. “I was - fuck, Tony, I was so scared.”

“You came for me,” Tony says, cheek pressing to Steve’s. “I knew you would.”

“God, I love you so much,” Steve says, and he needs Tony to hear it.

“I love you too,” Tony says simply. He pulls back and presses his mouth shakily to Steve’s. Steve kisses him back, trembling and close to breaking all over again. Gentle fingers card over his hair, palms pressing to his cheeks as they kiss fleetingly.

“Fuck,” Steve says, voice raw. He pulls back and drags Tony back in, hooking an arm around his neck. “I hope you don’t have shit to do today because I’m not letting go of you anytime soon.”

Tony laughs. “No, I’m good.”

There’s a noise from the bedroom; they both turn around at the whimper, immediately on alert. “I’ll go,” Tony says. “Go back to sleep.”

Steve shakes his head, and for once Tony doesn’t argue. He stands up and holds out a hand; Steve’s pride protests but he takes hold and lets Tony heave him upright, hissing in pain as he does.

“You need to go to medical,” Tony says. “I’ll get Coulson to-”

“No,” Steve says immediately. “No more fucking SHIELD medics.”

Tony’s expression turns bitter. “Arto liked her,” he says. They’d spoken about Vasquez on the journey home. Brief, stilted sentences, trying not to let the anger at the betrayal get to them. The corridor where she attacked Steve and was shot has already been dealt with, a SHIELD team had swept in to take evidence and effortlessly remove any trace of an incident.

“I know.”

Tony sighs. “Go get stripped down. I’ll take a look at you.”

Steve wants to argue, to insist he’s fine, but he’s starting to maybe think that he’s not. He nods mutely and follows Tony into the bedroom, watching as Tony leans over to check on Arto, a gentle hand on his cheek and softly murmured words. Steve watches for a moment and then limps into the bathroom, pulling the door mostly closed behind him.

He peels off his shirt, dropping it to the floor. He slowly kicks out of the sweats and looks at himself in the mirror above the sink, swearing softly as he does. He’d known he was in a bad way after he’d gotten out of his stealth suit, but he’d been so preoccupied with getting Arto and Tony checked over that he’d barely given himself a second glance. But here in the soft light of the bathroom, with the fear and adrenaline further away than they were, he can actually take stock of his injuries. There’s mottled brushing all over his chest from the force of being hit with the stolen suit’s repulsors, and there’s probably a matching pattern on his back. Most obvious is the dull red mark on his forehead from where he fell against the console. His shoulder aches from where the ceiling in the basement fell on him. His left leg isn’t feeling great either, and he distinctly remembers being shot just before the Doctor appeared.

Yeah, he’s taken quite a beating. Tony is not going to let him live this down any time soon.   

He hears footsteps approaching the bathroom but doesn’t look around. He stays exactly where he is as Tony edges in and pads towards him. Silently, Tony walks up to him and turns him, gentle fingers on his uninjured shoulder.

“Get the kit,” he says quietly, and there’s no flippant remark, no judgment. Steve nods and reaches over to the cupboard that has the first aid kit in, feeling Tony press a kiss to his shoulder as he does.

“Leg first,” Tony says as he takes the kit from steve. Steve just nods and leans forwards, resting his palms on the counter as Tony crouches down beside him and checks his leg. He’s a hell of a lot gentler and more cautious than Bucky is; it takes longer but this time around Steve actually doesn’t mind. Tony’s hands are warm and gentle, calluses from work rough on Steve’s skin.

They don’t talk. They don’t need to. Steve just puts himself in Tony’s hands and lets him work, slowly removing little bits of shrapnel and dirt from his wounds, soothing the aches with numbing agents specifically designed for Steve, applying butterfly stitches to his temple. He closes his eyes, lets the quiet sound of Tony’s breathing relaxing him.

“Steve?”

Both Steve and Tony immediately look up at the sound of the quiet voice. Heart lurching, Steve turns to see Arto standing in the doorway, looking tearful and confused.

“Hey, hey,” Tony says, stepping forwards and in front of Steve, trying to block Arto’s view of him. It’s too late though. Arto makes a sound and steps forwards, edging around Tony and looking for Steve, bottom lip trembling.

“I’m okay,” Steve says, and he carefully lowers himself to his knees on the bathroom floor. He catches Arto’s hand in his as Arto walks over, reaching for him.

“You’re really hurt,” Arto says, voice wavering. “Tony, he’s really hurt.”

Tony drops into a crouch behind Arto, pulling him into the gap between his knees. He settles a hand on his tummy and Arto grasps hold of his fingers. “It just looks bad,” Tony says. “Bruises like that always look worse than they are. Look.”

He reaches out over Arto’s shoulder and prods at one of the bruises on Steve’s shoulder. It feels slightly tender but nothing that another good night’s sleep won’t shift.

“Just looks bad,” Steve says with a wan smile. He hates the fear and worry in Arto’s countenance and wishes he’d shut the bathroom door properly, but Arto has seen him now and it’s too late to take it back. Still, there’s no reasoning that can get rid of the guilt he feels at his child seeing him in this state.

“Hey,” he says gently, and reaches out to put his palm on Arto’s cheek. “I’m fine. Superhero, remember?”

“How about,” Tony says quietly, mouth right next to Arto’s ear. “How about we look after Steve? Make sure he’s okay?”

Arto nods jerkily. “B- be medics,” he says.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Tony says encouragingly. “We can be his medics.”

Steve shakes his head. “No, I’m fine,” he says, thumb rubbing Arto’s cheekbone. “I’m looking after you.”

“Arto, this is where you say, ‘Steve shut up, you did a great job looking after us but now we want to look after you,’” Tony says, chin settling on Arto’s shoulder and his eyes locked on Steve’s.

“Steve shut up we want to look after you,” Arto repeats, and his chin wobbles again. Tony quirks an eyebrow at Steve and Steve shakes his head, opening his mouth to protest.

“Just don’t,” Tony says, and in voice is a resolve that Steve doesn’t think he’ll be able to argue with. “You came and got us. We want to look after you now.”

“Steve,” Arto says urgently and tearfully, and he sways forwards out of Tony’s grip and closer to Steve. He reaches out to touch him, hands skittering faintly over Steve’s shoulders, clearly wanting to touch but unsure if he can. Steve reaches for him and pulls him close; Arto wraps his arms around his neck and leans into him. Steve kisses the side of Arto’s face and then looks up to meet Tony’s eyes, slowly nodding.

Tony nods back. He leans over and kisses Steve’s eyebrow and then stands up, heading towards the tub and turning the taps on.

“Arto, we’re putting him in the bath seeing as he skipped the shower last night,” Tony calls back without looking around, voice raised over the sound of the rushing water. “I’ll run it, can you look after him for five minutes?”

“Yes.” Arto pushes back against Steve, standing up. He reaches out and gently touches next to the butterfly stitches on Steve’s head, then trails his fingers down to the cut that’s on the bridge of his nose.

“Cut,” he says.

Steve nods. “Yeah, it’s okay. Can’t even feel it.”

“I know,” Arto says. “I know. Tony, can I go - can I go get something?”

Steve doesn’t want to let Arto out for his sight but Tony is turning around and nodding at him; Arto darts away without another word. Steve watches him go and then turns to slump back against the edge of the bathtub, rubbing a hand over his face. Tony turns to perch on the edge of the tub, sitting silently with his head bowed. Steve reaches over to hold onto Tony’s ankle and Tony’s hand drifts down to play with his hair. Letting that and the sound of the water soothe his frayed nerves, he lists sideways, resting his temple against Tony’s knee, the polished stone of the bathtub cold on his bare back.  

He opens his eyes as he hears Arto come running back in not five minutes later. He’s got a green kit from medical in his hands.

“You can't get in the medlab on your own,” Tony says, brows furrowed.

“Natasha let me in. Bruce is fixing her foot,” Arto says, and drops onto the floor next to Steve, pulling the medical kit open.

“I already patched him up, Arto,” Tony says as he watches him.

“Nu-uh, I do it,” Arto says, and he turns towards Steve with a determined jut to his jaw and a tell-tale strip of yellow in his hand. Steve opens his mouth but then decides he’s not going to stop Arto from doing what he wants. As such, he sits still as Arto clambers across his thighs and very carefully presses a Hello Kitty band-aid to the bridge of his nose.

“Okay, you can get in the bath now,” Arto says.

“Thank you,” Steve says and Arto smiles crookedly at him, before leaning forwards and burying his face in Steve’s shoulder. Steve loops his arms around him and presses his mouth to the top of his head, breathing in the smell of his hair.

The sound of the water stops, and Tony stands up and bends over to pick Arto up underneath his arms, lifting him from Steve’s lap.

“Right,” he says with a grunt of effort as he swings Arto over and deposits him on the floor. “You go and find the fluffiest towels you possibly can from the closet.

“Okay,” Arto says seriously and then he’s gone, edging out of the room.

“In the bath, Rogers,” Tony says and holds out a hand. “Hop to it.”

Steve takes Tony’s hand and lets him haul him up for the second time that morning. He sways slightly as he regains his balance; Tony is quick to catch him with a hand on his side, expression concerned.

“I’m alright,” Steve waves him off. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“No,” Tony replies, and leans in to kiss him, quickly like he can’t help himself. “Get in and relax. I’m going to help Art and also try and keep him from bugging you for a while. Relax, okay?”

“I can’t,” Steve says. “Tony, I can’t just lie around in the bath and relax, what if-”

“Nothing is going to happen,” Tony cuts over him. “We’re all home. Jarvis is on high-alert. Coulson’s SHIELD team are keeping an eye on the place. No-one is coming in or going out for the next twenty-four hours. I get it, alright. I get it. But you - you’re a mess, Steve,” his voice cracks and his eyes are too bright. “And we want to take care of you. Arto needs to take care of you. And I swear if you aren’t in that bed with me tonight I will lose my mind, so ditch the underwear, get in the damn bath, take your industrial grade painkillers and stop arguing with me.”

And all there is for Steve to do is nod dumbly. “You do know I’m okay though,” he says. “I mean, I know I’m beat to hell, but I’m here-”

“I know,” Tony nods jerkily. “But please indulge us right now and let us step up. Let me step up.”

Dipping his chin, Steve answers with a gentle kiss. Tony holds onto his wrists and kisses him back, and then pulls back to bump Steve’s forehead with his own.

“Get in the bath, Daddy Rogers.”

Steve watches as Tony leaves the room, calling out for Arto as he does. Taking a moment to compose himself, he listens to the quiet sounds of them talking through in the other room before doing as he's told, stripping off and climbing gingerly into the tub.

The hot water is achingly good on his skin, soothing and calming and helping wash away the last of the lingering fear. He closes his eyes, sinks down into the tub so his shoulders are submerged, hissing through his teeth as his injured shoulder comes into contact with the water. It fades into a dull throb and he exhales heavily, eyes still closed as the steam rises lazily around him, allowing himself to be supported and comforted by the warmth of the water.

The fear and panic slowly start to bleed away too. He can hear Tony and Arto in the next room and allows himself to trust in Tony that everything will be okay. The urge to cry is slowly fading away too, washed away by the heat and the knowledge that his family is close by and safe.

Long, peaceful minutes later he hears the faint noise of footsteps padding towards him and the door being hesitantly pushed open. He opens his eyes to see Arto in the doorway, Bucky Bear clutched in both hands. He blinks hard, unsure of how long he’s been here; the water has gone from hot to warm, though isn’t yet uncomfortable.

“Hey, Smart-Art,” Steve says, rolling his head to the side.

“Is it okay?” Arto asks. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Steve says softly. “It feels a lot better.”

Arto nods slowly. He plucks at Bucky Bear’s ear with restless fingers, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Is it good for your bruises?” he asks. Steve sits up, the water sloshing gently around him. He leans over the edge of the tub and holds out a hand; Arto pads over and steps right up close so Steve can slip his arm around his middle.

“You okay?” Steve murmurs. Arto runs his hands over Steve’s forearm where it rests against the side of the tub, small fingers rubbing wet hair the wrong way, dancing over the darkened edge of a bruise. He doesn’t answer, just knocks his temple against Steve’s, rolling his head from side to side.

“I have a bruise too.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, eyes still closed. “Do you now?”

“Yeah,” Arto says. “On my leg.” He steps back out of Steve’s grip and sits down so he can pull up the leg of his pyjama pants. He gets them just up above his ankle and yep, Steve can see a faint brown-yellow bruise on Arto’s shin. It’s fading already, but he must have hit it pretty hard to even earn a lasting bruise.

“I’m sorry about your bruise,” Steve says softly. “Does it hurt?”

Arto nods. “I think the water will make it feel better.”

Steve huffs out a laugh. “You want the bath after me?”

Arto shrugs. “I look after you. We could share.”

Steve closes his eyes for a long moment. “Alright," he says. “Roll that leg up and come sit up here.”

Arto does as bid and Steve reaches over to lift him up and over so he can sit on the corner of the bath, leaning back against the wall. He lowers his bruised leg into the water, leg extended alongside Steve’s face and foot resting on Steve’s chest.

“Too hot?” Steve asks and Arto shakes his head. He sits stroking his hands over Bucky Bear’s jacket, content to huddle in the corner. Steve exhales heavily and tilts his face so he’s resting his cheek against Arto’s leg, hand coming up to carefully encircle Arto’s ankle in gentle fingers.  

Arto doesn’t make a peep, and sits unusually still. After a while one of his hands drifts down to fiddle with Steve’s hair, twisting wet strands between his fingers. It’s maybe fifteen, twenty minutes later when Steve hears Tony through in the other room, saying goodbye to someone, presumably on the phone.

“I leave you unattended for ten seconds,” Tony’s voice says, sounding tired. “Arto, leave him alone. He’s healing.”

“It’s alright,” Steve says as Tony walks into the bathroom, phone in hand. “Fixing up a bruise.”

“On my leg,” Arto says, flexing his toes in the water, heel pressing against Steve’s chest.

“Personal space invader,” Tony says to Arto, but he’s smiling. “That’s what you are.”

“Am not.”

“Are too,” Tony says. “Right, food is on the way. Ridiculous amounts of food, because you are about to get out of that tub and into the bed to be fed approximately five thousand calories, and then you’re going to sleep.”

Steve nods and this time he doesn’t even have the wherewithal to argue. “Okay, Tony.”

“I’m serious. You won’t be allowed to get up for at least twelve hours. Me and Arto will sit on you to keep you in the bed if necessary.”

“Yup,” Arto agrees solemnly, foot bumping against Steve’s chest.

Steve laughs softly through his nose. “Okay, Tony.”

Tony’s smile is soft and warm, and he steps forwards and holds out a hand. “I could get used to you saying that. Now come on Rogers, time for you to be fed and looked after some more, and no arguing with me.”

Steve folds his fingers around Tony’s and kisses the back of his knuckles. Maybe letting Tony look after him for a bit longer won’t be too bad. Maybe just this once.

He looks up and he smiles. “Okay, Tony.”

 


	3. Clint & Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint and Bucky hitch the rating of this fic up to an M but are thwarted in their attempts to get to E.

Slowly but surely, Clint surfaces back into the land of the living. Groggy and not quite awake, he breathes out slowly into his pillow, fingers tightening in the fabric next to his face as he decides if he’s going to try and wake up or if he’s going to go back to sleep. 

“Take it easy,” a rough voice says from somewhere next to him. Bucky’s voice. Bucky is here. Bucky is here in his bed wearing not a lot because they’re now a thing after nearly dying. Okay, being awake it is then. 

He blinks, screwing his face up against the light. Turns his face to see Bucky sitting up in the bed next to him, shirtless and propped up against a load of pillows. He’s got his phone in his hand and the other thrown up behind his head. 

“Hurting?” Bucky asks, and glances up from his phone. He meets Clint’s eyes and blinks, and then his mouth hitches in an almost smile. “You’re filthy,” he says and reaches out to rub his knuckle against Clint’s cheek.

“Could probably stand up for a shower now,” Clint says, clearing his throat and rolling over onto his front, pulling the blankets with him. He settles with his face close to Bucky’s side, and feels Bucky rest a hand on his back. It’s a casually intimate touch, and now he’s not all whacked out on painkillers he can really appreciate it.

Wow. They’re a thing. They’re really doing this.

He wriggles closer to Bucky, nose touching the warm skin of Bucky’s hip. Just because he can now, he tips his chin up and presses his mouth to Bucky’s skin.

Bucky makes a soft noise and brushes his hand over Clint’s head. “You know it’s weird that that’s not weird?”

“I dunno, should it be weird?” Clint mumbles, and kisses him again.

Bucky shifts, shoving the pillows aside and lying down on his side next to Clint, eyes flickering over his face. “Maybe it should be. We’ve been friends for years.”

“Best friends for life.”

“Totes besties.”

“And then we get kidnapped and nearly die and then get together. Apparently we’re a romantic comedy.”

Bucky laughs softly at that. “You are altogether too tragic to win a leading role in a romantic comedy.”

“Oh, and you aren’t?”

“No, I’m straight up action. Leading man in Die Hard twelve.”

Clint rolls his eyes and leans in fractionally, just testing the waters. Bucky lifts an eyebrow and Clint leans in a bit more. Bucky leans back and Clint rears back in affront, and then Bucky grins at his put-out look before leaning in and kissing him, fingertips on his cheek. It settles deep and easy in the pit of Clint’s stomach, and helps ease the raw edges from the past couple of days. He feels safe here. Happy. 

“Okay?” Bucky breathes, and Clint just nods. With the affirmation, Bucky seems to step it up a gear, kissing Clint a little harder, biting at his lower lip in a way that makes Clint arch, pressing into it. Bucky shuffles closer, a hand slipping under the covers to rest on Clint’s hip, the metal hard through the thin fabric of his boxers.

Fuck. He’s making out with his best friend. If they keep going this way he’s going to get felt up by his best friend. If it keeps going after that he’s going to get naked with his best friend, and he’s going to end up fucking his best friend.

He wants it more than he can even comprehend, considering that two days ago he and Bucky were just bros.

“This isn’t weird, this is great,” he says, the words muffled by Bucky’s mouth, and Bucky is enthusiastically responding with hands and tongue, and Clint is hitching a leg around one of Bucky’s and trying to enough leverage to make him roll over, wanting Bucky’s weight on top of him-

A banging at the door makes them both jump a mile. Bucky wrenches away, lunging for his gun that’s on the nightstand, ending up sprawled over over Clint with the gun aimed towards the door-

“Clint! Cli-int, where are you? Barton, Barton-”

It’s  _ Arto _ . Of course it is. Clint flops back onto the bed with a groan, bouncing slightly on the mattress. Bucky lets rip a few choice curse words, uncocks the gun and shoves it down the back of the mattress, well out of the way of small prying eyes and wandering fingers.

“In here, pal,” Clint yells back, and he hears tiny footsteps pelting across the floor, and then the bedroom door bangs open. Arto is there, looking wide awake and clean - for once - and very determined.

“Steve is asleep,” he announces, and then makes a beeline for the bed. He gets halfway across the room and then stops, looking warily at Bucky.

“You want me, you get Bucky too,” Clint tells him matter of factly, but does shove Bucky off of him back onto his side of the bed. 

Arto looks unsure for a moment, and then he seems to decide that his need for Clint outweighs his dislike of Bucky. He starts moving again and scrambles up onto the bed, pushing under the covers and snuggling up to him, tucking his head under Clint’s chin.

“Alright, so I’m going to shower,” Bucky says. “Seems like an ideal moment to break.”

“Alright,” Clint says, and smiles as Bucky leans over and presses a smacking kiss to Clint’s temple before rolling out the other side of the bed and heading into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him as he goes. 

"Gross," Arto mutters, pulling at the blankets, apparently settling in for some time.

“So, good morning,” Clint says to him, amused. He wriggles a bit to move sharp knees out of his thigh. “Not that I don’t love the human alarm-clock act, but why are you here?”

“I have a bruise,” Arto says, leaning back and craning his chin up to look at Clint. “On my leg.”

Well. In Arto land that’s a perfectly acceptable reason to barge into someone’s room and wake them up. “Fighting bad guys comes with bruises,” Clint tells him with a shrug. “Bucky’s covered in ‘em.”

“Did he fight bad guys?”

“Smashed them,” Clint says. “The bad guys took him, so you know what he did?”

Arto shakes his head, looking fascinated. 

“He broke out. He was in a cage, and he broke out and he beat all of the bad guys. Like fifty of them. They were running scared from him.”

“Good,” Arto says, his tone more vicious than Clint’s ever heard. “They can  _ die. _ ”

“Hey, don’t be like that,” Clint says, shoving gently at his shoulder, but when he looks down Arto is suddenly looking too-bright eyed. “Hey, hey. Not the face. Come on, not the face.”

“Did he kill all the bad guys?” Arto asks, insistent and fierce. “All of them? Are they gone?”

Clint breathes out slowly, mouth twisting. He wants to say yes, but he doesn’t know if he can. Firstly, because he doesn’t want to paint Bucky as nothing more than a ruthless killing machine, and secondly because he knows there’s always more bad guys to take the place of the last lot they got rid of.

“You know we will _always_ protect you,” he instead says to Arto. “No matter how many bad guys there are.”

Arto’s mouth twists. “There are more.”

It’s not a question, and it breaks Clint’s heart a little. “Come here,” he says. He rolls over onto his back and holds his arm out so Arto can snuggle in, resting his head on Clint’s shoulder. He traces his fingers down the edge of a scuff mark on Clint’s upper arm, poking at a mark that is either a bruise or a bloodstain.  

“We’re superheroes, right?” Clint says to him, craning his neck up so he can look at him. “And that’s awesome. But it also kinda means that we get in a lot of fights. And sometimes that’s shit.”

“Why can’t they leave us alone,” Arto mumbles quietly. “I don’t want to fight bad guys no more.”

“And you don’t have to,” Clint says. God, he needs Steve and Tony here for this; this is their area of responsibility, not his. “We’ll look after you. Promise.”

“Steve look after me,” Arto says. “And Tony. And they look after each other.”

“Yep.”

“And Bucky looks after you.”

Clint smiles tiredly. “Yeah, he will. Hey, then who looks after Bucky?”

“Bucky doesn’t need looking after,” Arto says like it’s obvious, brow creasing up like Clint’s being a dumbass that he's only just managing to tolerate. It looks oddly like the expression Steve sometimes wears when dealing with Clint, and that's weird on a whole lot of levels.

“Hey,” Clint says, squeezing him gently. “Tell you a secret.”

“Yes.” Arto says immediately. “Tell me.”

“No, you’ll tell.”

“Won’t!”

“Alright. Alright,” Clint says, and drops his voice to a whisper. “Bucky needs looking after too. Even if he is good at beating up bad guys.”

Arto doesn’t look convinced, but he heaves out a sigh and settles into the crook of Clint’s arm. Clint reaches over and flicks at his ear, and Arto lifts his head and then flicks him back.

“I’m telling Steve,” Clint gasps, clutching at the spot on his shoulder where Arto flicked him. “And Tony, I’m telling-”

“No, don’t,” Arto says, shoving at him. “Or I’ll - I’ll tell Steve you started it.”

“Whatever,” Clint says, and ruffles Arto’s hair to much objection. “Shhh, I’m sleeping.”

“Lies,” Arto mumbles, but he does settle down. Clint shuts his eyes, listening to Arto breathing next to him and the shower running in the bathroom. It’s a million miles away from battle, and there’s nowhere he’d rather be right now. 

He’s almost asleep again when the peace and quiet is interrupted by something he probably should have been expecting; Steve’s rather frantic voice over the speakers.

“Clint? Have you got Arto? I woke up and he was gone-”

“I’m here!” Arto cries out, hands reaching towards the ceiling. 

“I’m coming to get you,” Steve says, and then his tone turns somewhere between reproachful and worried. “Arto, you can’t just wander off.”

Arto drops his hands, looking unsure. “Clint’s floor. I’m allowed.”

“Yes, but-”

“Steve, I’ve got him,” Clint says, trying to be reassuring but also understanding Steve’s stress. “Jarvis is on alert. We’re home. We’re safe.”

“I go,” Arto says, sitting up and pushing at the blankets. “Steve, I’m coming. I’m coming back.”

Clint lets him go, enduring an ear-bashing hug and a kiss in the cheek before Arto scrambles away, tripping out of the bed and darting out of the door. Clint watches him go, fighting the urge to go after him and walk him back into Steve’s hands.

“Jarvis, show me Arto,” he says, quickly reaching over to his nightstand and grabbing his phone. A feed instantly pings up and he sinks back into the pillows in relief as he spots Steve walking down the corridor, shirtless and in sweats. A couple of seconds later Arto runs into frame, jumping at Steve and clinging onto him as Steve swings him up onto his hip. Steve presses a kiss to the side of Arto’s head and Arto winds arms around his neck, fingers teasing at the hair on the back of Steve’s head. 

Huh, would you look at that. Looks like it all it took was a kidnapping to push Steve from unwilling parent into overprotective helicopter.

Well, Clint thinks as he puts down his phone. Maybe that’s not fair. Steve had gotten his act together quite a way before the kidnapping had happened, and going through that is enough to make anyone slightly overprotective. He’d probably be angry at Steve if he wasn’t doing his damnest to make Arto feel safe right now. Man, nevermind Arto, he’s not going to let Bucky out of his sight for at least a week, and Bucky is a fully-grown supersoldier who is perfectly capable of looking after himself. 

He yawns, scratching his bellybutton and idly listening to the sounds of the shower in the bathroom. Smiles lazily, thinking about waking up with Bucky, and not just waking up with him but  _ waking up with him. _

Why it never occurred to him until now honestly seems like a bit of a mystery.

He turns his head to look at the bathroom door, hand stilling. He drags his hand up, splays his palm out over his chest, feeling the thud of his heartbeat. Being alive is pretty awesome, he has to admit. After this entire fuck-up, he’s unbelievably glad that everyone made it. God, how it had felt when Bucky had gone missing, when he’d realised that he was  _ gone- _

Suddenly Bucky seems altogether too far away. 

He climbs out of the bed and is at the bathroom door before he can really think about what he’s doing. He knocks, resting his temple against the wood.

“What?” Bucky yells. 

“Can I come in?” Clint calls back, and this is probably crossing some sort of boundary because they’ve been a thing for like twenty-four hours, and they’ve seen each other naked before - an inevitability of living in close quarters, training together, patching each other up after injury -  but now everything is different and the being together lines are probably different to the being friends lines-

“Yeah, sure,” Bucky calls back easily.

Clint pushes the door open, slipping in and closing it behind him. He looks up and swallows hard; Bucky is still in the shower, easily visible through the water-flecked glass. He’s standing side-on to Clint, his face turned up into the spray and his eyes closed. His hair is plastered down onto his forehead, curling wetly behind his ears and Clint wants to run his hands through it.

“Go ahead, don’t let me stop you,” Bucky says lazily, and Clint shifts from foot to foot, reaching up to scratch his head.

“I, uh,” he says.    

Bucky cracks an eye open, looks his way. “You gonna take a piss or you just here to ogle?”

“The second one?” Clint says, mouth hitching weakly, fleetingly. “I just kinda needed to check you were still here.”

Bucky looks at him properly at that, turning to face him, running a hand unconsciously over his shoulder, the twisted scars where skin meets metal. “Yeah,” he says quietly, and then turns back again, running his hands up over his head. “You’re still filthy.”

“...yeah?”

“Get in,” Bucky says without looking at him. 

“What?”

“You heard,” Bucky says. “Get in or get out.”

Clint’s hands move without permission, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of his boxers. He’s pushed them down and kicked out of them before he even really registers that this isn’t what they’ve always done, that this is new. But it’s pretty much too late, because he’s opening the door of the shower and climbing in behind Bucky.

It’s blissfully warm on his skin, aching muscles welcoming the heat. The water running off of him is a murky colour but he isn’t remotely embarrassed; he’s been in worse states after battle and Bucky has seen it all. 

“C’mere.”

Bucky turns and steps close, a washcloth in his hand. Clint’s stomach skips as Bucky moves, shivering with the knowledge that Bucky is very close, very wet and very naked.  Bucky slips an arm around Clint’s waist and gently pulls him forwards so they’re close enough so that their thighs brush, and then he raises the washcloth and none-too-gently rubs it over Clint’s face.

“Jesus, Buck!”

Bucky’s laughter rings off of the glass and tiles, even as Clint tries to squirm away. His metal arm tightens around Clint’s waist and he yelps as the plates pinch his skin.

“Stop squirming then,” Bucky says like he scolding him, tightening his grip. Clint stops wriggling and settles back into Bucky’s grip, though he doesn’t stop glaring at him. Bucky rolls his eyes and holds up the washcloth again, either a question or an offer. Clint continues to glare and this time Bucky brings it in slowly and gently wipes at Clint’s neck. Clint’s glare softens and he makes a contented noise in the back of his throat, eyes fluttering shut as Bucky carries on. 

He stands still, perfectly relaxed under Bucky’s ministrations. Bucky cleans all the dirt and blood from his skin, even washing Clint’s hair. By the time the last of the shampoo suds swirl down the drain and the water is running clear, Clint is feeling lazy and content and like he could fall asleep standing. 

His eyes open as Bucky presses a kiss to the back of his neck. “Okay?”

“Mmm,” he murmurs. “Nice.”

“You’re purring, Barton Kitty,” Bucky murmurs, slipping his arms around Clint's waist from behind, chin hooking onto his shoulder. 

“Mrow,” Clint says lazily. “I feel good.”

“Yeah?” Bucky murmurs, and he kisses Clint’s shoulder, pressing close. It makes Clint shiver with anticipation and want, thinking back to when they were interrupted that morning, thinking about what they said yesterday-

“Whoa, did I ask you to fuck me yesterday?”

Bucky doesn’t reply straight away, and Clint groans, letting his head fall forwards, chin touching his chest. “I did, didn’t I?”

“No, you mentioned fucking, but you didn’t outright ask me,” Bucky says. “You said a lot of dumb shit yesterday. I won’t hold you to it.”

There’s something off in the way he says it, just slightly. Clint thinks for a moment, and then he remembers something he said, something he’d forgotten about until this second, something he really shouldn’t have said while he was slightly drunk on industrial grade painkillers. Knowing Bucky’s wariness of letting himself be emotionally vulnerable, he doesn’t even think twice about what he’s going to do here. He never even considered that he might be in love with Bucky, not since he got here and they became friends, but it’s now pretty obvious. Everything he  _ did _ know, the parts of him that couldn’t be without Bucky, that would feel down when Bucky was down, that would feel better when he was around...now he’s attached the L word to it, it kind of does make sense.

“I love you,” he says, lifting a hand and reaching behind him, cupping the back of Bucky’s head, fingers combing into damp strands. “Probably always have.”

Bucky presses his mouth to Clint’s shoulder again. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know that feeling.” 

Clint grins, because that translated from Bucky-ish is  _ ‘I love you too.’  _

“See,” he says, turning his face for a kiss, which Bucky gives him without reservation. “I say dumb shit when I’m sober, too.”

Bucky pinches him and Clint laughs, dancing away and then turning back to him, blinking spray out of his eyes. He catches Bucky’s hips in his hands and leans in to kiss him, smiling as Bucky’s arms wrap around his neck.

“Okay, now I’ll ask you if you’ll fuck me.”

He feels Bucky shiver against him, which does his ego the world of good. “God,” he says, voice low and rough. “Yes,” he says, between kisses, as Clint’s hands wander down the muscle of his back, exploring new territory. “Fuck, yes.” 

And they’re kissing and kissing, needy and breathless, and Clint can’t help but wonder why they haven’t been doing this all along, why it’s taken kidnapping and mortal peril to get them here, but then Bucky is cupping his ass with both hands and pulling him flush against him, and he just wants-

“Agent Barton, Captain Rogers is requesting your presence in the communal kitchen,” Jarvis’s voice interrupts smoothly, and of course he fucking does.

“Tell him to screw,” Bucky says indignantly, his hands still clamped on Clint’s ass. “Kinda busy, here!” 

“Apologies, but Master Arto is rather upset that Agent Barton is not there for breakfast.” Jarvis at least sounds apologetic. “He seems worried that you and Agent Barnes have been kidnapped again.”

“Aw, kid, no,” Clint groans, and rests his forehead on Bucky’s shoulder. “He was stressing about this earlier. Jarvis, tell him we're fine.”

“He doesn’t appear to be listening,” Jarvis says. “And I don’t think providing him with video feed would be appropriate right now.”

“Fucking shit,” Clint curses, and looks up at Bucky, helpless.

Bucky sighs, and reaches out to turn off the water. “Fucking cock-blocked by a kid that isn’t even ours,” he grumbles, shaking his head like a wet dog and then climbing out of the shower. 

“I’m sorry,” Clint says, climbing out of the shower after him and reflexively reaching up to catch the towel that Bucky throws at him. He wraps it around his waist, watches Bucky do the same. 

“Hey,” he says, and Bucky looks up at him. His hair is dripping down his face, plastered to his forehead, and he’s still got a faint bruise around one of his eyes. His metal arm gleams in the light, and water droplets are slowly trailing down his chest and shoulders. His brows are lifted in question, waiting for Clint to carry on. 

God, he’s gorgeous.

“Nothing,” Clint says. Bucky eyes him for a moment and then shrugs, turning towards the mirror and leaning in, baring his teeth at his reflection and then reaching for his toothbrush. It’s nothing Clint hasn’t seen before, but now it’s making his heart ache in a strange gentle way.

“Jarvis, tell Arto we’re on the way,” Clint says, reaching for another towel and draping it over his head, idly rubbing it over his head. He watches Bucky for a moment longer and then ducks out of the room, contented smile still curving his mouth. 


	4. Tony & Everyone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is almost two years late? My Mum says its okay because "hi-ee-tus is a word for a reason" and "you and that story were ON A BREAK."
> 
> Anyway. I hope you enjoy, I very much did and I'm still up for prompts and stories in this universe <3

“Ten hours,” Arto says.

“Yep.”

“Ten hundred hours.”

“Yep.”

“Ten million hundred hours.”

Tony smiles, though he knows it's tired and not altogether convincing. “We can stay here,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around Arto and rocking him back and forth, “for as long as you like.”

He ducks his head and presses his mouth to soft blond hair. Arto shifts and wriggles, almost butting him in the mouth. “Steve,” he calls, restless.

“Still here,” Steve calls back from the kitchen, busy with rinsing out the three empty coffee pots that they’d got through during team breakfast.

“Come here.”

Steve doesn’t normally indulge Arto’s whims so readily but Tony supposes a kidnapping slash near death experience will have a bit of an impact. Abandoning his job of loading the breakfast plates into the dishwasher, Steve comes straight over. He still looks an absolute mess; the cut on his temple still isn’t gone and there’s bruising all over his jaw. At least he’s taken the Hello Kitty band-aid off his nose.

“Hey,” he says, sitting down next to them and leaning over, allowing Arto to wind skinny arms around his neck. “How you doing?”

“I want Clint,” Arto says. Tony internally sighs; Clint and the others have been gone for all of forty minutes, dispersing after team breakfast to take some more time to rest and decompress. Maybe it had been a little optimistic to hope that a single team breakfast would be enough to reassure Arto that everyone was safe. 

“He’s gone back to bed,” Steve tells him. Tony sits back, setting a gentle hand on Arto’s back as he leans into Steve, threatening to pitch himself right off of Tony’s knee. 

“But what if someone comes and takes him,” Arto says anxiously. Tony feels his heart plummet and meets Steve’s eyes over the top of Arto’s head. Steve looks just like he feels: wrecked.

“Okay,” Tony says, more to himself than his pair of Rogerses. He’s exhausted and he’s probably still in some sort of shock from the whole abduction a la Hydra shebang, but he still forces himself into problem solving mode. “Okay, I’m going to ask everyone for permission to set up temporary monitoring, then I can get a video feed. If I load some sort of multi-window interface on his tablet-”

“I don’t think Clint and Bucky will go for that,” Steve says. “They’re...honeymoon phase, probably.”

“I’ll ask anyway,” Tony says. “Or just monitor heart rates? Hey, Smart-Art, would you feel better if I could prove to you through numbers that they’re safe?”

“No,” Arto whines. His eyes are too bright and he is either going to cry or start screaming. Great. 

“I’m going to ask,” Tony decides. “Slide over, Art.”

Arto lets himself be pulled onto Steve’s knee. He makes a distressed noise, twisting around and looking for Tony, the hand that’s not fisted in Steve’s shirt grasping back towards him. It hits Tony again, like it does every now and again, just how small Arto is. Small and vulnerable and scared, and Tony let him down and let him be taken and hurt-

“Hey.”

Tony blinks as Steve’s voice cuts through the haze of thoughts, his concerned face coming back into focus. Tony belatedly reaches out, wraps his fingers around Arto’s smaller ones, leaning in so he can kiss them.

“You with me?” Steve asks evenly, and Tony nods. “Okay, whatever you’re thinking that made you look like that, stop.”

Tony looks down, away from those searching blue eyes. “Sure,” he says. “I’m going to go ask permission for temporary monitoring.” He climbs to his feet. “Unless you’re objecting.”

“Not today,” Steve admits a little ruefully. “Temporary monitoring is on my temporarily approved list.” He winces as Arto shifts around, trying to burrow into Steve’s chest and digging bony knees into his thighs. 

“Okay,” Tony says. “I’m on it.”   


He gets up but doesn’t get far; Steve reaches out and takes hold of his wrist, holding him in place. His mouth works but he doesn’t say anything, just lets out a deep breath and then nods. 

Like father, like son.

“I’m not leaving the tower,” Tony says. “And you have permission to watch me on all the security feeds you like.”

Steve presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Thank you,” he says simply, and then lets go. Tony brushes his thumb over Steve’s bottom lip and then walks away, mind already on the job. Phase one - Barnes and Barton.

 

* * *

 

Tony thinks that phase one is doomed the moment he mentions the word ‘surveillance’ and Bucky’s grip on the doorframe splinters the wood. He’s standing there in his boxers, with spectacular bed head and dark rings under his eyes, looking almost as beat-up as Steve. That’s definitely a bullet graze on his bicep, and the bruising on his ribs would have lesser men weeping.  
  
“I don’t think-” he says, breaks off, frustrated. “I can’t handle - Steve promised no-one would keep eyes on me when I moved in, and we just got fucking dicked over by Hydra. You can ask Clint when he wakes up, but I-”

Tony nods, understanding but not liking it. Damn. Onto a new plan, then. “No need,” he says, waving off Bucky’s ranting. “Barton is all heart-eyes for you right now so I can’t monitor him without the cameras catching you.”

Bucky visibly grits his teeth, muscle in his jaw clenching. “Fine. Do it.”

“I can do it?” Tony asks, perking up. Plan A crawls out of the recycle bin and back into existence. 

“Temporary,” Bucky says, the warning in his voice clear. “No sound. And it’s for the kid only.”

“You gottit,” Tony says. “Thank you, Terminator.”

Bucky scowls. “I’m doing it for Steve and the kid, not for-” he breaks off as there’s a sleepy murmur of his name from within the apartment. “I’m here,” he calls back, his scowl immediately going soft, voice low and gentle. It doesn’t last too long; he turns more fully into the room and sighs, exasperated. “Clint, get back in the damn bed! Don’t make me make you!”

Tony takes that as his cue to leave. He mentally checks off Barnes and Barton and goes to find his next biggest potential roadblock: Natasha.

 

* * *

 

“Why didn't you just phone me and ask?” Natasha says, frowning. It's not what Tony expected but it often goes that way with Nat, so he just decides to roll with it. She walks back into her apartment and sits down on the padded window seat that she’d had put in, leaning against the glass and gazing out at the city. A book lies on the coffee table that she’s pulled over, next to three packs of cookies. Tony finds the idea of the Black Widow comfort eating both hilarious and terrifying. 

He takes a step or two into the room. “Because I’m being polite?” he tries. “Well, mostly because if Art overheard and it didn’t work out then he’d…” He mimes a nosedive and crash with his hands.

Natasha leans forwards to pick up a cookie. “You could have just asked us to come back for him.”

Tony pauses at that, then dismisses the idea. “You’ve all got to deal with this is your own way,” he says. “Barnes needs to mother hen Barton, you need your quiet time, Bruce needs to sleep and eat ten thousand calories-”

“You’re a father now, Stark,” she interrupts. “We get that his needs supersede our own in some ways. Besides,” she adds, smiling crookedly. “We love him too.”

Tony feels a rush of gratitude. “So that means yes to temporary monitoring?”

“You abuse the monitoring system all the time anyway,” she says, nibbling at the edge of the cookie. “How is this going to be any different?”

“Wow, rude,” Tony says. “And this is different because it will be eyes on you all the time for twenty-four hours, with Arto able to look in whenever he wants. And that means me and Steve will also probably see all, because we’re with him. It’s not just Jarvis and the servers recording for security and me occasionally dipping in for extremely viable, important, ethical and legitimate reasons.”

“Do it,” she says. “No sound, no bathroom surveillance.”

Tony shoots her a thumbs up. “Deal and deal.”

Natasha crams the cookie into her mouth and picks up her book again. Tony shows himself out. 

 

* * *

 

“What?” Bruce says, sleep fuddled and confused. “You monitor me all the time, remember, the green-watch program.”

“Jarvis does, it’s Jarvis, why is no-one getting this? I want to turn Arto into Jarvis 2.0 for a while.”

Bruce blinks at him. “Please don’t turn your child into a robot.”

“Wow, you are not awake enough for this conversation,” Tony says, rubbing his forehead. “Go. Sit. I’ll make coffee, then we’ll talk.”

Bruce obediently shuffles back into his apartment. Tony follows, extricating his phone from his pocket and video calling Steve. The moment it starts to ring, he feels a knot of anxiety winching tighter and tighter in his gut. This is what is must have felt like when Steve tried to call him, only to find that Tony was gone and had let Arto be taken too-

Steve’s face appears. It takes Tony a moment to work out the angle; Steve is lying on his back with Arto half lying on him, wedged between Steve’s side and the back of the couch. His blond hair is all ruffled up, caught on Steve's shirt.

“Okay?” Steve asks.

“This is taking longer than I thought it would,” Tony says. “I should have prepared a statement for everyone to read. “Yes, Tony Stark may turn over access of the previously Jarvis-run surveillance system to Arto Rogers.”

“Don’t worry,” Steve says. “He’s fallen asleep again anyway, we might not even need-”

“No,” Tony cuts across him, probably too sharp. “No, I mean...I need to fix this.”

Steve’s expression is caught between understanding and annoyance. “This wasn’t your fault, you don’t need to fix anything.”

“Okay, sure,” Tony says. “I’m going to fix the thing.”

Now Steve is definitely annoyed. “If I’m not blaming you then you shouldn’t be blaming yourself.”

“If only it worked that way,” Tony says, offering a rueful smile. “Call me if you need anything.”

Steve nods and Tony hangs up the call, turning his attention back to Bruce. “Okay, Banner, caffeine is on the way and then we’ll talk about that thing where I’m not actually turning my child into a robot.”

“With you I never know,” Bruce calls back, and Tony decides that it’s probably a fair comment and lets it slide.

 

* * *

 

Thor opens the door in his underwear, listens to Tony’s now well-rehearsed speech, says, “Of course, though not in the bedroom. We’ll hang a sign on the door if we are occupied. The cameras should be able to pick it up, yes?”

Then without another word he closes the door in Tony’s face.

Eh, Arto isn’t that worried about Thor. Tony’ll take it.  
  


* * *

 

His final stop is the workshop, with Arto’s tablet in hand and various screens of code open around him.

“Okay, J,” he says, his focus on the project making his guilt seem a little easier to ignore. “Child-friendly monitoring interface, coming up.”

 

* * *

 

Three hours and twenty-one minutes and he’s got it cracked. A whole app, built mostly from scratch, sitting pretty on Arto’s tablet. It’ll let him monitor the location of the team around the tower, let him look at heart rates and also access video feeds if it gets really rough. Tony has compromised and added a password lock to the video feeds part of the app though, so he or Steve can check that Arto won’t see anything he shouldn’t. Tony’s thinking of Barnes and Barton and their honeymoon phase as he programs it, but he also concedes that it’ll be good for making sure Arto doesn't see anyone with weapons or with injuries on display. 

“I think we’ve got it,” he says quietly, closing his screens of code with an absent minded wave of his hand. “Jarvis, turn it online.”

“Maybe it would be prudent to test before closing down coding interfaces?”

“Shush, you, it’ll work,” Tony says. “I made you, I can make a monitoring app. Turn it on.”

The dark blue yellow ‘A’ icon on Arto’s tablet turns white, the signal that the app is up and running. Tony taps on it, navigates through the menu and chooses to look at the tower map. The ‘out of the tower’ box is empty, and the tiny avatars that correspond to the team are-

“Wait, what?” Tony says aloud, frowning at the tablet. All of the avatars except for himself are crowded in one place, all together on the communal floor. He’s sure he didn’t get any code wrong, so that must mean -

He opens up the video interface, selects ‘Steve’ from the list. A dark box pops up with a password request overlaid on the top. Tony quickly types in the passcode and then the video connects, showing exactly where Steve is and what he’s up to.

“Oh for god’s sake,” Tony huffs, through his mouth is curving in an unwilling smile. “You guys are the worst, most unhelpful.”

Tablet still in hand, he heads up to the communal floor. He steps out of the elevator and the moment he does, eight out of nine faces all turn to look at him expectantly.

“Tony!” Arto fake-whispers from the couch. 

“Why have I just wasted three hours of my life making a monitoring app if you’re all just going to sit in here anyway,” he grouses.

“You would have made it no matter what we said, so stop bitching,” Steve says, craning his neck around to look at Tony. He’s smiling though, one eyebrow lifted in a clear ‘tell me I’m wrong’ expression.

Tony doesn’t dignify that with a response. He walks over, stepping down into the lowered seating area and leaning on the back of the couch. Arto immediately stands up, feet sinking into the cushions as he winds an arm around Tony’s neck. “Okay, Smart-Art?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Arto says, dragging the word out into several seconds of affirmation. “Everyone came to see me.”

“That they did,” Tony smiles. Steve reaches back, fingers stretched, and Tony slides his fingers through Steve's as he surveys the rest of the room. Coulson is sprawled out on the couch next to Steve and Arto, his tie pulled loose and top button undone; Natasha is nestled in one lounger chair, wearing a hoodie that Tony knows is Steve’s; Bruce is in the other lounger and there’s a side table stocked with a vast array of stacks nestled between them; Jane and Thor are sitting on what looks like the couch from the meeting room and are curled up together under a thick blanket; Barnes and Barton are in the space where the coffee table usually is, lying on an actual mattress they’ve dragged in from somewhere. Bucky is propped up on a multitude of pillows and Clint is fast asleep next to him, sprawled out on his back with his mouth hanging open.  The TV is playing  _ Monsters Inc _ in the background and there’s a bowl of popcorn next to Jane’s feet. 

“We decided we’re not ready to move onto remote monitoring yet,” Natasha says from her chair. “Bucky was getting twitchy not being able to check on Steve.”

“And  _ you _ wanted to keep an eye on Solnishka,” Bucky replies.

“I’m just here for the food,” Bruce says, and Bucky and Jane both start to laugh.

“Come,” Thor says. “For today, we shall stay together. How about you order us more takeout and then come and join us.”

“Yeah, Tony,” Arto says, swaying against him then twisting around so he’s leaning back against Tony, watching the TV. Tony wraps an arm around his middle, palm on his belly.

“Alright,” he says. “If you insist.”

He lets go of Arto and Steve and climbs straight over the back of the couch, much to Arto’s delight. He slumps against Steve’s side, pushing at him until Steve lifts an arm, letting Tony settle in at his side with his arm a comforting weight on his shoulders. Arto sits on his lap, feet pressing against Steve’s thigh, humming quietly as he watches the film. 

“So I made the thing,” Tony says, passing Steve the tablet. “And you rendered it moot.”

“Not moot, just not necessary yet,” Steve says, yawning widely. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

“Fine. Natasha, order food on my card,” Tony says. “I’ve been coding all morning, I’m tapped.”

“You got it,” she says, phone already in hand. Down on the floor, Clint snorts himself awake, lifting his head from the mattress and looking around blearily. “Did someone say food?”

“Outstanding,” Tony says, and Steve laughs softly, a warm breath on his ear. 

“You okay?”

Tony presses his lips together, cautiously probing to see how he does feel. With the team around him, his son curled up on his knee, and his lover slash boyfriend slash love of his life holding him close, he finds that he tentatively is okay. The guilt hasn’t gone away, neither has the fear, but they feel manageable. He doesn't think that the team are all here purely to indulge Arto, and thinking that maybe they're struggling a bit too makes him feel...well, not better. Just not as alone. Its still lingering, obvious in the bruises on Steve's face, the shadows under Bucky's eyes, the way Bruce keeps rubbing at his temples and how Natasha is sitting with her knees pulled up into Steve's sweater. 

“Yeah,” he says quietly, turns to look Steve in the eye. “I am. We are, aren't we?”

“Hydra on the back foot, at least a week off, and everyone safe and sound,” Steve murmurs back. “I’d say we won this one.”

“Yeah,” Tony replies, dropping a kiss to the top of Arto’s head and watching as the rest of the team start badgering Natasha with requests for food. He smiles. “You’re probably right. This one's a win.”


End file.
